Evening, all. It's Christmas Eve, about 11:30, and my wife is singing at her third 90-minute church service of the day. She'll be at it for another hour or so before she and her overtaxed vocal cords stagger home. So I'm here with the boys, who are busy dreaming of all the wheeled and spherical things they got for Christmas. If there was a theme to the gift-giving this year, it was Cars and Balls -- Robert likes to race the former, and TwoBert likes to hurl the latter at his father's glasses.
The only outliers were Grandma Jellyspoon's completely awesome hats and mittens, which will hopefully get some wear if the temperature ever bothers to fall below 45º. We were all outside today playing Hooligan Fiesta in shirtsleeves. On Christmas Eve. In New York. Do glaciers even exist anymore?
I said the boys are sleeping, but in fact Robert is the only one who's stayed down for the count. (This is not surprising, because if the apartment building were ever swallowed up whole, "Poltergeist"-style, Robert would sleep through it.) TwoBert has been restless all night. He took almost a four-hour nap this afternoon, and even though we got him to sleep by eight he's already been up twice. All it takes is a sip of water and a slow dance to get him back down, but the frequency is a little strange. Frankly, I think he's having nightmares about the fairy lights, which someone has recently re-jiggered for the worse. Remember how they used to run away from you, and you got to chase them? Now, they mostly converge on you, often forming logos of the show's main sponsor around your feet. It's creepy enough to feel like a carcass being set upon by army ants, but when the ants swarm in the name of corporate brand awareness it's downright alarming.
I was with the boys all day today while their mother spent eight hours singing just about every Christmas carol there is, and we had an absolute ball. These precious days when it's just the three of us keep getting better. TwoBert is getting more verbal, and he's got a three-foot drop on his curve ball. And Robert's grasp of logic continues to astound me. He and I were eating chocolate and watching the Giants' season limp off into obscurity when I noticed he had brown rings all over his face and hands. I asked him to go wash off, and he said, "But Daddy, I'm just going to come back and eat more chocolate. So really, what's the point?"
Oh crap. TwoBert's up again and ready for another slow dance, so I'll cut this short. Have a lovely night, everyone. May your holidays be safe, healthy, happy, and free from menacing, carnivorous logos.
